


where have we gone?

by m3llow_hi



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Emotional Hurt, Family Dynamics, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Rage, is wilbur really a villain? no, please just let them be happy just for once please i'm so tired of the angst, that's a lie i love the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28593339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m3llow_hi/pseuds/m3llow_hi
Summary: Just some snippets I wrote about how I thought the SBI reacted during/after the explosion of L'manburg because their dynamic is so interesting and angst is just so easy to write. It's all there and ripe for pickings.
Kudos: 7





	where have we gone?

Phil prays one last time, just barely hoping his wings to give one last flutter as the painfully wrap around Wilbur. It goes dark as the ground roars with life. He thinks he can hear them scream in agony but it’s just Wilbur’s hoarse barking laughter. He can only look on with the pain of a father as his son crumbles beneath his gaze.

_His heart is so torn he is convinced that he will just die right then and there._

With one last shudder, Phil feels his wings snap and shatter like glass. This is not the first time they had been reduced into dust but it does not stop the earth shattering pain in his chest as Wilbur continues his mad, sobbing mess of a song. Phil closes his eyes and tries oh so very hard not to shudder under the shrieking wails of hysteria. Gods, what has happened to his family? A sword is shoved into his palms with great force and the situation at hand hits him harder than the explosives that laid waste to a dying nation. The voices swarm him, pleading and begging for mercy. For once, he cannot grant those wishes, he had lost all power once he stepped into those borders. With a straining wail, the sword is shoved cleanly through his son. The voices are louder and increase in their mass crescendo of grief.

Phil doesn’t have it in him to scream anymore.

God, the weight of the air brings him back to those soft humid nights, guitar strings gently digging into his calloused fingers. He rememberers the heavenly glow that shrouded his light footed father, the gentle hum casting a spell in the damp kitchen. Wilbur longs for the rushing voices to just stop. He wants to go home. He wants to drink Techno’s soothing tea one more time. He wants to fall asleep on the couch with Tommy one last time. He wants to finish the songs laying hidden in his enderchest, to sing them to his friends just once.

But Wilbur is a man with no regrets. Or he likes to think so. Wilbur hates long speeches, despite having a repertoire for the dramatics. But now, he thinks he could keep talking until the earth stops her shallow grief, his grave adorned by trembles and the screams of his former comrades.

_Wilbur is a man with no regrets._

He wishes he could give Fundy just one more hug. He wishes to enter Niki’s cozy bakery, where the sweet smell of vanilla followed the equally sweet girl like perfume. He wishes to go fishing with Phil in the rain, the gentle rustling of his wings there to sooth him and the voices. He wishes for the gentle whispers of the lingering shadows to find solace in his family, broken as they are. Wilbur lets his story come to a close as chokes silently, Phil’s tears slowly soaking into his coat, his skin.

Techno never thought it come to this point. Everything seems to start and stop, pulling his body into multiple directions and he is tired. People love to forget his mortality, favoring his roars of victory, snapping his jaws in the face of oppression. The voices start screaming at him once more, shrouding him in a deep sea of grief and raw powerful rage. Maybe he should consider retirement. Maybe then the harsh sting of betrayal will fade into a light scar, maybe then it’ll be just like the old days. The world slowly crumbles under the weight of his sigh, adjusting his grip on the many skulls adorning his pocket.

_People love to forget that gods have never forgotten to feel, to let their emotions slide through their fingers as they cast their short mortal lives onto the depraved._

Techno will never let them forget the rage, the harsh stings of betrayal that claws at his throat and crawls under his skin in every waking moment. He will never let them forget his grief, as short as it must last, for war never lets a man rest.

_It’s warm again._

That’s the first fleeting thought Tommy has when he stops to stare at Phil. The thought startles him so much it nearly sends a cascade of tears he’s not ready to face threaten to trickle out. He just reaches out with a shaky hand, tightening around the soft, soft fabric of his dad’s coat. Tommy doesn’t know what to feel anymore. He’s always felt some sort of anger, excitement, something. He’s crumbling and weak willed but Phil doesn’t complain as they slowly sink into the dewy fresh grass. He could almost laugh at the irony. They both ignore the way his shoulder shakes, the bloodstained cotton, Phil’s red rimmed eyes, every shaky breath that becomes shorter and shorter, the heavy smoke filling their lungs, everyone’s insistent staring, the way his dad pulls him closer, tighter, their dry throats, the-

Tommy is shaken from his over-stimulated stupor by a gentle nudge, his eyes raking over the tired form of _Tubbo_ and he thinks he can feel the tears well up again. He wants to listen to the discs again, he wants that familiarity to wash over him and never let it out of his sight.

He wants to cry and wail his grief to the stars but it is not his time.


End file.
